Heart Break
by Pat Foley
Summary: Sarek deals with his heart condition before the Babel conference. Holography series 5. Chapter 4 up.
1. Chapter 1

**Heart Break**

**By**

**Pat Foley**

Chapter 1

_How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is  
To have a thankless child!_

_King Lear_

_Sarek's Tale_

My wife speaks sometimes of her freedom of choice, once made, now lost in a Vulcan bonding. The Human spirit, she reminds me, does not easily bear constraint. Freedom is inherent in its makeup. Humans don't do well in captivity, however well loved the captor, or comfortable the confinement.

And as best a Vulcan can, and as much as biology allows, I try to understand. And relieve what I can of that burden, anathema as it is to her species.

But there are things I do not tell her. Burdens of mine which I refuse to lay upon her. She could do little to alleviate them, anyway. That would require her becoming Vulcan, compromising her own humanity. And as Vulcan travails, they are mine to resolve.

For after millennia of restraint under logical disciplines, the Vulcan heart can be reluctant to stir. Slow to rouse. We have found logic to be the better way for our people. Long practice and harsh disciplines largely contain our warrior ways. But lift that constraint, open the door to passion, even in the marriage bond where such can be allowed, and the genie, to quote one of my wife's human tales, does not so compliantly return again to the bottle. It becomes larger than life, more powerful than he who freed it. Almost impossible to contain. For some. Particularly those of certain clans and in the direct line to our legendary warriors.

So I have found. Passion, once unleashed, even within certain constrained settings, can break free. Given sufficient provocation.

Losing a son, nearly losing a well-named wife allowed my passions, already kindled to mere embers in the marriage bond, to flame out of control, nearly destroying us all. A very Vulcan pronouncement on the dangers of emotion. And a warning.

I have conquered that Vulcan monster, forced it back under control. But the passion, and the genie, is still within me. I still take care not to stir it with reminders of the situation that caused it to rage beyond my control in the past. It has helped that the major source of that conflict has not visited in some time. But the need to be constantly on one's guard takes its toll, throughout the years, Vulcan disciplines aside.

And as it turns out that even a Vulcan heart, when stressed beyond all endurance, can, finally, break.

It's such a human term. Heartbreak. Romantic, in one of its meanings. In that alone it should please Amanda. Except for what it really meant, in this case, for this Vulcan.

Heart. Break.

xxx

We had nearly finished breakfast when the Federation diplomatic packet came.

"I'll get it," Amanda offered, for she had finished her breakfast, as I had not, and had long possessed the security clearance to sign for such things. She went to pick it up from the courier, and brought it in to the table, holding it at length from two fingers, dropping it as distastefully at my place as if it were some sort of vermin and wrinkling her nose as if it smelled that way too.

"It looks like marching orders to me," she said, assigning her long-used phrase for the diplomatic missions that occasionally disrupted our home life. "I suppose now I'll have to tell all my students they have to deal with a teacher who must finish the term by subspace link."

"A probable assumption, but if you wish, I will verify that fact before you leave for the Academy, so that you can make your arrangements."

Amanda rested her chin on her upraised hand and watched me as I opened the first of its many seals. "We couldn't just throw it away and hope they didn't come after us, could we?"

I regarded the small security disk that had been enclosed under all the layers of packing. "This requires a verifier scan. We had better relocate to my office."

"Or we could run away instead, very fast and very quietly, in the **opposite** direction," my wife suggested hopefully, as she followed me down the hall. "Perhaps they wouldn't find us."

"That would be a dereliction of duty." I sat down at my desk, inserted the disk into the computer, and submitted to a palm scan.

"**I** won't tell if **you** won't."

"They **would** find us," I assured her. "I have a certain notoriety. And I have been assured, my wife, that you are a 'press darling'".

She made a wry face. "You're confusing me with Amanda Grayson, 'romantic figure', star of scandal rag and press release. I only do that in the line of duty. **Your** duty. **Dr**. Grayson, prosaic teacher and unnotorious researcher, prefers to have no comment. In fact, she's seriously considering a lifetime case of laryngitis."

"She is going to have to find her voice again." I submitted to a retina scan. "She certainly seems to have found it now."

"I could expire, waiting for you to open this confounded thing," she said, drumming her fingers as the computer went through another Federation clearance. "These security boys need to have their budgets trimmed – or something more productive to spend their time on. They are confusing us with someone who believes they have any secrets to keep. Do they honestly think we have nothing better to do than to play these silly spy games --"

"_Please_ _repeat the following code for a voice print analysis_" the computer said.

"Or we could **both** expire, of boredom and fatigue, jumping through all their security hoops, which may outlast even a Vulcan's lifetime--"

"Hush," I told her, and realized with some exasperation that the computer would take that as an answer.

"_Non-responsive_." The security program replied. "_Second try of three_."

Amanda smiled in mischievous amusement. "See, we still have a chance. There's always the last resort: hiding under the bed. I'm sure the resident monsters already taking refuge there would make room for us, given the situation--"

"Amanda," I warned.

"You **told** me to find my voice."

"_Non-responsive. Third and final voice print test._"

She drew a breath but I fixed her dumb with an emphatic glare and gave the computer the code word it requested. "Babel."

"_Identity confirmed._"

"They say the third is the charm," my wife said. "How I wish you weren't so charming, my husband. It seems more likely a curse in this case."

"I may not have been so charming, had you corrupted the last security test. Were I not Vulcan, you would have almost made me reconsider the efficacy of what in your culture is called a good spanking."

Amanda looked amused and reflective. "I **was** spanked once, as a child. I forget exactly what I did, something very fun and very naughty. And I considered the fun and the spanking together, very seriously, and I went out and did it again."

"That I can well believe. To return to more responsible subjects, however, your assumption was correct," I said, examining the summary. "These **are** marching orders."

"Darn! I was so hoping for just one more delay. Then I could teach out the rest of my current term."

"I had warned you this was likely."

"And great prognosticator that you may be in these things, hope still springs eternal in my spirit."

"I am sorry to crush such timeless optimism," I said. "But this is quite definite." I scanned down through the rest of the documents for the particulars. "A general conference to discuss the admission of Corridon to the Federation has been called. It should be an interesting, if somewhat volatile, session. They would have done better to wait until more diplomacy had exhausted some of the more raucous factions in this debate."

"I do believe that every once in awhile the Federation likes to bring all its representatives together just to have a good old-fashioned free-for-all. It gives them that welcome opportunity to reevaluate the competition. In fact, I wouldn't put it past them to create untenable situations just to **have** the excuse."

"An interesting philosophy," I remarked. "You may well be correct."

"In this, my dear husband, I'd far rather be wrong," she said. "I really don't want to go to Babel. It's going to be a nasty situation and I have far more interesting and mature things to do at home. Can't we be excused? Given credit for time served?"

"Parole is not extended to Federation representatives," I said, amused. "Only for lesser criminal offenses against the Federation. Theft, murder and so on."

"T'Pau has the final rule on all jurisprudence on Vulcan. How about a note from your mother? _'Please excuse us from attending—'_"

"T'Pau is not likely to grant such a request. Nor will I be likely to request one from her. I **am** going. And as you succumbed to my charm enough to become my wife, **you** are equally required to attend me."

"Someday, my husband, I must teach you the delights of playing hooky."

"If you don't leave for the Academy now, you will be tardy and very nearly close to playing hooky yourself."

Amanda checked her chronometer. "Whoops, it is getting late. I had better give my students the sad tidings. Not to mention the administration. What's our departure date?"

"The 20th day of Tasmeen," I said.

She paused, dismayed. "That's less than three weeks!"

"It seems the situation has some urgency. And from a security position, speed is a benefit. They are leaving enough time only to gather the constituents. We are fortunate to have three weeks; we'll be one of the last to be picked up."

"Urgency!" she stormed. "They dither about it for months, then expect us to drop everything when they finally make up their minds. Oh, very well. I'll warn my classes to warm up their subspace transmitters. And beware the ides of March."

"It will only be a conference, not a political assassination," I replied absently, still reading.

"Social knife work is _de rigueur_ at such events."

"I'm sure Federation security will take every step to ensure that this will be a peaceful gathering. Look what they have done already to ensure the location is secret."

"Nothing this widely attended is going to be secret, my husband, no matter **what** the spy boys intend."

"It should still be uneventful--" I paused. My breath caught, and stilled. Almost, for a moment it was if my heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it had.

"So we can only hope," Amanda said. "But I was only teasing, my husband. I will play Ruth yet again. And let the Academy know of my departure." She waited a moment, then taking my silence for absorption in work, walked out the door.

Leaving me riveted to the one item of information that would have vastly changed her willingness to leave for the Babel mission. And the one that made me almost desirous, if such could be said of a Vulcan, of deserting his duty. For the transportation that was engaged to ferry us to the Corridon conference was the Starship _Enterprise_.

Spock's ship.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Heart Break**

**By**

**Pat Foley**

**Chapter 2**

_Sarek's Tale_

I have never gone as a supplicant to the Terran Embassy. It was difficult, even something of a strain to my control, to make such a request. Added to the strain was marshalling control against the frigid temperatures and humidity within the Terran Embassy, set nearly to Earth normal. They had no occasion to adapt it for the comfort of visiting Vulcans, for Vulcans rarely if ever visit. When Federation or Terran representatives wish to ask something of Vulcan, they come to Council Keep. The need to request anything of them, from me, had not previously arisen. I was as unfamiliar with that role of mendicant as they were with the role of benefactor.

Perhaps, had we had more practice, the request could have been granted.

But that was an illogical wish. The Terran Ambassador was new to Vulcan and eager, even anxious, to accede to this unlikely situation from this unprecedented supplicant. He did everything in his power, called in the Starfleet naval attaché, sought alternatives. But only twelve Starships exist among the whole of the Federation, many of them on distant exploratory missions. The remainder is already scouring the four quadrants to deliver the representatives to Babel. Simple physical distances, obvious logistical difficulties, negate juggling existing schedules and starships to send another to Vulcan. Security restrictions mandated that only the existing cleared vessels were to deliver the attendees to the conference location. I understood that, once the situation was laid out.

It was only a thought.

And apparently some effort had actually been undertaken to relocate and reassign the Enterprise to this duty, based on the personnel involved. They could not know how it was otherwise for me. And now it was too late to change. The Ambassador was chagrinned at how these good intentions had gone wrong.

It was unfortunate.

But as I left the Ambassador's office, I was already resigning myself to the necessity of dealing with Spock, mastering the control needed. I had managed several of Spock's visits home before. While they had been difficult, the disciplines were not beyond me. It was unfortunate that it had to be dealt with when my control would be taxed with an already volatile Federation situation. Unfortunate too, because when Spock visited his mother on Vulcan, he was careful to avoid the obvious outward manifestation of his chosen career. Starfleet was avoided as a subject matter when I was present. Now I would be confronted with him in that setting. But I would be equal to it.

Though my heart, already fighting the strain of the frigid temperature in the Embassy and the ignominious and now denied request, sped up somewhat, just envisioning that future trial. I forced it back to something of a normal rhythm, forced my own emotions back under control. The physiological and emotional war was one long fought, and usually mastered. I could manage it. I would have to.

And I thought I had mastered it, and was walking briskly to the exit, thinking of how to prepare. That was when the pain hit, without warning. It came at first like a hammer blow within my chest, nearly bringing me to my knees. The second phase was as if a vise were squeezing my heart, already pounding arrhythmically from the first blow, a vise that tightened increasingly beyond all my control. As my vision dimmed, I turned swiftly, unknowing, barely conscious, into a darkened corridor for privacy, like an animal instinctively seeking a quiet corner. There I fought the urge not to gasp in pain, clenching my eyes shut with the effort not to be brought to my knees. And failed on both ignoble fronts.

Fortunately most every one of the Terrans were away and I was not followed. No one was in this empty space to see Sarek of Vulcan laid low. For a moment, my head reeled with a looming darkness. I wondered with nearly my last conscious thought if I was going to expire – and how ironic if it were in the Terran Embassy. I thought of Amanda. And at that, my will rose. Somehow, I forced physiological control over my rebellious body, brought my heart back into some sort of rhythm, however irregular. I struggled to breathe though the cruel constriction. Perhaps it was the oxygen enriched air of the Terran Embassy that saved me. For long moments, I simply crouched on the floor, struggling against pain, against the disorienting pound of blood in my ears, and the irregular beating of a heart that wanted to go off into spasm again. I breathed shallowly of the cold but oxygen enriched air and waited, to either die or recover.

Then, as swiftly as the attack had come, the pain eased somewhat. I drew a relieved, if shallow, breath through my lungs, amazed that the vise that had constricted my chest had let loose some of its terrible grasp. I drew air in slowly, carefully, almost afraid to breathe too deeply and risk that terrible vise returning. But instead, the remainder of the pain and constriction slowly eased and faded. I sat back on my heels, shaking still, and very weak, but functional. I could breathe a full breath without pain. The hovering darkness threatening unconsciousness lifted. The pounding in my ears lessened. Last of all, my heart stabilized into something closer to a normal rhythm. Opening my eyes, the green mists cleared from my clouded vision. I was astounded to discover directly before me an iconic drawing of a human heart with an arrow and a stylized jagged crack through the center. A broken heart. For a moment, logic failed me and I wondered if this were some prophetic vision.

Then I realized the "heart" was part of a notice for a gathering celebrating the human custom of Valentine's Day. It made me realize anew that I was still in the Terran Embassy. Wondering at my good fortune in not being seen, I looked around and realized I was in some sort of storage area. And plastered on the walls of this utilitarian space were all the flotsam and jetsam banned from the formal public parts of the Terran Embassy: notices for language lessons in colloquial Vulcan, baby sitting services, items for sale, and social activities among the staff. Including the jagged heart notice. Just another incomprehensible Terran party. No prophetic symbolism at all.

For some odd reason, that calmed me further.

I rose to my feet, hand to my side. My breathing was still ragged and I was tense with anticipation and dread in case that exertion started up the pain again. But it did not return.

For now.

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

Heart Break

by

Pat Foley

Chapter 3

_Sarek's tale_

As devastating as the attack in the Terran Embassy had been, I recovered swiftly. Within a few moments, I was able to leave the Embassy under my own power. And no obvious ill effects, other than a slight headache from the rise in blood pressure, which my own physiological control quickly dealt with.

But to be so violently stricken obviously implied some serious condition, which required a Healer's investigation. I made my way to the Healer's Enclave, pondering what it could be.

For someone normally so confined to a desk, to a conference table, my general health has been good. I hike regularly on the Forge. And I pursue other, less traditional forms of exercise that stimulates the heart, in addition to other areas of the body. I considered myself reasonably fit.

In spite of my wife's occasional ribald comments to the contrary, my diet is also generally moderate. I eat very lightly at midday, often neglecting to do so at all, when work becomes pressing, as it frequently is.

Dealing with volatile beings in high profile negotiations can involve some considerable taxing of my control, and strain on the system, but so far I have always been equal to it.

Marriage to Amanda has added its own strains, for as a Vulcan I have had to impose an additional level of control in interacting with her. One cannot live with a human wife without touching her, but untempered handling can cause bruising to humans. A thoughtless grasp could break bones. Humanity is so fragile in comparison to Vulcan strength. And my wife's strength of will often belies the fact that she is a delicate creature by all Vulcan standards. In short, living with Amanda requires an extra exercise in control on my part, and continual vigilance. The few slips I have made in unguarded moments have taught me how necessary such control must be. Countering that, though, is the joy that she otherwise brings to me. In a life of duty and control, she is my one, and by Vulcan tradition, my only licensed indulgence, the one being to whom I can relax control – though that relaxation must also be strictly regulated. But she has served me well. Indeed, upon reflection, I believe that I could never have survived twenty years of Federation politics so well without her.

To that point, my existence would be far more peaceful in the absence of Federation striving and rancor. But, without the Federation, I would also have no Amanda. A tradeoff that so far, I have believed she has won. At least in my heart.

But as a result that heart has survived more strain, perhaps damaging strain, than those of other Vulcans. I had thought I had coped with it well. If my heart had often seemed to beat too rapidly in my chest, there had always been sufficient provocation for the strain. And it had always responded to my physiological controls to slow its unbridled race. The constant vigilance of the control under which I lived was sometimes wearying, but I also had other compensations. I had not thought there was much amiss.

Thus, I'd had no particular reason to visit the Healer's Enclave in many years.

If they were surprised to see me, their control was equal to it. I was attended to immediately and swiftly met with. But there, their control slipped. The neutral expression on the face of the first Healer as he examined me broke briefly into one of gravity. He summoned a second whose brow actually furrowed in concern. Among healers, that was as violent as a reaction as one could never wish to see, for it boded ill. When a third Healer was summoned, if I had hoped otherwise, I suspected then that the condition was quite serious. And when they spoke to me, they confirmed my surmise.

The icon in the Terran Embassy had indeed been prophetic. My heart was broken. A malfunction in a heart valve, to be specific, but broken, seriously damaged none the less. And the Healers were adamant about their recommendations for its mending.

"You must resign all your duties, Sarek. Immediately."

Perhaps this was to be expected, but still, the immediacy of it shocked me. "Surely there is some other redress for this condition."

"Of course. We will begin a program to address the situation. Biofeedback at first, supplemented with other healing techniques. If that does not serve, there are medications. And, as a last result, even surgery, should it become necessary."

"Surgery?" If I had not been apprised of the seriousness of the situation before, I was now. Surgery is rarely indicated for Vulcans, considered a barbarous technique of last resort.

"Naturally, such drastic measures can't be countenanced immediately. Fortunately, it should not come to that."

I struggled to come to grips with the situation. "There is an issue. In three weeks time, I am due to attend a most important Federation conference."

"That is quite impossible."

"It is quite imperative," I insisted. "My attendance has already been scheduled."

The healer looked excessively patient. Perhaps, even with Vulcans, he dealt with those unable to accept unwelcome news. At least, so his manner implied. "It will have to go on without you."

I tried to imagine how it could. I held or represented dozens of Federation votes, both within and without the Vulcan alliance. And there were others that would look to me to see how I would vote, and vote accordingly. There was no replacement that could accord the same weight at the conference table. There was no one of my staff who held the same level of trust, who could hold a volatile and often unruly coalition together. If I could not attend, there was a serious possibility that Corridan would be refused admission to the Federation. The repercussions on one world and one people would be great indeed.

And yet, my thoughts veered off into an undisciplined tangent. At the back of my mind, was the memory of Amanda, rearranging her schedule to play Ruth yet again, following me at the expense of her own career. Would she be pleased if it were not to take place? No, on further thought, the reason for it would outweigh any pleasure she might feel about missing the Corridan conference. She would, in fact, be quite distressed.

"I must go," I said. Or had I only said it in my mind?

For the healer, meanwhile, continued to speak of his plans. One phrase of his caught my attention, drawing me back from thoughts that were becoming increasingly labored. "To that avail, Sarek, you should call your heir home immediately."

I raised myself from my musings. Over the years, most of my associates had learned better than to speak to me of Spock. "My heir?"

The healer stared at me uncomprehendingly. "Your son. Spock," he added, when I failed to react. "Surely, Sarek, you understand how your circumstances have changed. It is time for your son to return home and assume his duties – your former duties."

Perhaps it was unVulcan of me, but I could not so swiftly exchange in my mind a lifetime of duties from present to merely former tasks, to be completed by others. It was not so easy, not in practice, or in mind. And as for calling Spock home, every fiber of my being rebelled and found voice. "That is quite impossible."

The healer's authority was so absolute over his patients, he persisted, even when others would never have challenged a statement of mine made so emphatically. "It is true this should be a temporary measure. The probability is that we will get your condition stabilized and you will eventually resume most, if not all, your former activities. But for the present, you must completely rest, Sarek. You must avoid all strain. The only work you can undertake is that with the healers in regaining your health."

For a moment, I stared at the healer, wondering how I was to explain that the very prospect of dealing with my wayward son was what had contributed, at least in part, to this present attack. That dealing with Spock entailed considerable strain even in the most innocuous of social situations. That, as Amanda would say, we 'walked on eggs' around each other, neither striving to engage the other in a debate that had promised no solution and that only increased the rift between us. In no way could I order my son home to Vulcan to take up my clan duties. The only other major illness of my life had been due to the rift caused by his very refusal to attend them. But how to explain this? The rift between myself and Spock was not well publicized. Only T'Pau knew the extent of it.

"Sarek." The healer had been waiting patiently for me to respond. "Do you understand? You must call your son home. Now. You have no choice."

_No choice._ The words echoed in my mind as I struggled with my thoughts. Trying to form words to explain. Even for a Vulcan, sometimes events become too much to take in. What kept intruding on my logical thought processes was the irony of the situation. _No choice._ I had always had choices, a choice, my choice. It was others who had lacked choice.

I thought of Amanda, who had at times over the years rebelled, at least in thought, at the loss of choice in accepting a Vulcan bonding. Who even now sometimes bridled if I thoughtlessly used the emphatic mode in addressing her, giving her a tacit, or less than tacit, order. I thought of Spock, so determined to be free to choose that he sacrificed his family place to obtain it. I was a Vulcan male, head of a household, leader of a clan. Loss of other's choices necessarily surrounded me, as tradition and custom had destined my rule. But my own choices had never been constricted. My thoughts whirled even contemplating that.

Constricted. Like the fist suddenly surrounding my heart, increasing the pounding in my chest. Causing a tightness in my lungs, preventing me from drawing a full breath. And now, I realized why my thoughts were so disordered, so undisciplined. So lightheaded, as Amanda would characterize it. I truly was not well.

_No choice_, I thought. Even Amanda would find it ironic. And then, I thought, in a last undisciplined fancy, _she must never know_.

The vise closed around my chest again, drawing the blackness down, preventing word, breath, thought. Had I been conscious, I would have seen the Healers, for all their vaunted control, truly lose countenance. But I was lost myself in a green mist, shading to black. A crushing pain brought me to my knees, well below their stricken gazes. This time, a groan broke my once vaunted control.

I had my second attack.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Heart Break**

Chapter 4

By

Pat Foley

_Amanda's Tale_

The one thing about Vulcans is that it's hard to know when they're really preoccupied. Because they're almost always deep in thoughts of one sort or another, whether calculating the numbers of votes and the various political factors required to pass a certain legislation, or, on something simpler and more prosaic, looking over a bunch of fruiting raspberry canes and figuring out how many jars of jam T'Rueth can get out of them before the next crop.

My husband is fond of raspberry jam. Many Terran fruits are too sweet for Vulcan tastes, but low sugar fruits like raspberries and blackberries are catnip to Vulcan taste buds.

Needless to say, after forty years of living with Vulcans, I'm used to the remote, slightly glazed expression of a Vulcan engrossed in the sort of calculations that are second nature to them. And I'm also used to the fact that even when they may seem like they are catatonic, Vulcans are still quite capable of processing myriad sensory inputs. They really are still paying attention. So I tend to chatter on when so inclined. If I didn't, I'd have to get used to a lot of silence, and Sarek would wonder why I never talk to him. Just because Vulcans can't help thinking all the time, doesn't mean they are deaf or immune to social pleasantries.

"I worked out all the subspace links for my classes today," I chattered on undaunted, tasting a bit of plomeek soup. Sasek's hill farm had brought in a bumper crop of plomeek and tavash, and we were eating Vulcan-style for a change. Plus Sarek had increased the percentage of produce for sale from our Terra-styled gardens to counter another rise in Federation taxes. Vulcan didn't charge its own citizens for these, instead garnering the funds from tariffs and trade on imported or foreign goods, from Spaceport fees, and tourist revenues. The proceeds from our garden produce and tourist tours of the house and grounds were plowed into this fund, along with that from many other ancestral sites. Even T'Pau's palace had an ancient wing open to tourists, to help feed the hungry Federation maw. So between the Terran gardens being stripped and the hill farms overproducing, we were eating a lot more Vulcan dishes lately. I didn't really mind. It had always been easier for me to "cook Terran". And for a time after becoming our cook, T'Rueth had had a love affair with Terran foodstuffs, and while exploring them, she had somewhat neglected Vulcan cuisine. So it was past time we enjoyed a more balanced mix. Though I didn't really care for plomeek – sort of like an orange rhubarb – because it was a bit too tart for me. I'd been known to add orange juice or even strawberries to plomeek soup to make it more palatable to human taste. When T'Rueth made it Vulcan style, I would either eat a few spoonfuls, out of politeness, and then go on to the next course, or just add a bit of orange juice. There wasn't any orange juice on the table, so I promised myself after four more spoonfuls I could leave it with a good conscience. I ate another, repressing a slight shudder. Only three more to go. "I had to argue with the head of the Academy to get some of the priority channels," I continued, to take my mind off what I was not enjoying, "and we had to juggle the schedule a bit, but we finally have one that works for everyone concerned. I hope it doesn't interfere with any of the conference meetings you want me to attend. Hopefully I can just listen to recordings if they do. Or one of your advisers can update me."

Sarek said nothing, still abstracted. So much so that he was eating as little as me, even though plomeek was a favorite of his. Though he always said he liked my version of it better than the classic dish. Too bad Spock wasn't here. Traditionalist that he was, he preferred the undoctored version. I raised a brow at Sarek's behavior and took another spoonful. The taste made me close my eyes for a moment, though I refused to actually wince, thinking this time T'Rueth really had made the classic version. Even two more spoonfuls seemed like penance. On the other hand, after twenty years of my trying to cook meals for Vulcan, human and Vulcan/human hybrid tastes, I could commiserate with her on the fact that it wasn't always easy. In fact, it's very difficult to cook for someone when you don't have the same taste buds as they do. She did a far better job of it than I had, and after forty years of experience with the execrable food at certain diplomatic banquets, I was not going to be defeated by a little acrid plomeek soup from my own dear cook. I took a sip of water to dilute the taste, and thought, _only two more to go_.

"You'll have to give me the conference schedule, so I can check the times. By the way, Sorlak sends his greetings, and he said to remind you that you promised to give a lecture at the Academy on "The Hegemony of the Vulcan Alliance in Federation Politics". Aren't you straying a little into my territory?"

Sarek still said nothing. I assumed he took the question as rhetorical, which it more than half was. I took another spoonful, shudderingly slightly. Just one more for show and I'd be done with this horrid dish without hurting any Vulcan's non-professed but very real feelings. "Just let me know when you schedule it. I want to be in the front row. Taking notes, of course," I said innocently. "I wouldn't dream of heckling." I smiled at him and he didn't react. Instead he pushed his dish away, nearly untouched.

"Is it that bad to your taste as well? I asked, concerned. "I can ask T'Rueth for some orange juice. I thought it was just me."

"No. Unnecessary." Sarek said curtly.

I stared at him, stunned at this brusqueness, and wondering at a possible cause, though it seemed unlikely. One of the many things I liked about my husband was his sense of humor, when he was in the right mood. It wasn't like him to so misconstrue me. "Darling, you know I was just teasing. I'd never heckle or embarass you--"

"Amanda, your plans are unnecessary," he said, interrupting in a manner rare for him. "We will not be attending the Corridon conference."

I stared at him, stunned. "We won't?"

"No."

"Did the Federation postpone again? Or has something happened to cancel it? Is everything all right? You've looked distracted all evening, but I thought--"

"The conference will go on. We simply will not attend."

I swallowed hard and the taste of the plomeek came back to me, suddenly more acrid than before. I pushed my own dish away, that last spoonful be damned. Sarek not attending a Federation conference that we'd been scheduled to attend was like the sun not rising. It just didn't happen. "I don't understand. We got marching orders."

"Someone else will be marching instead," Sarek said with a ghost of his old manner, but then he grew remote again as swiftly as if it had never been. "I will choose among my assistants."

"But how can--" I cut myself off. Having seen our soup plates pushed aside, T'Jar had entered silently with the next course. I waited for her to finish laying the new course and clearing the old before continuing. Sarek waited as well, unexpressionlessly, as still as a statue. "How can someone else go? No one else has the experience to handle a conference of this type. Even for you, this coalition is going to be difficult enough to hold togeth --"

"Never-the-less, we will not attend." He looked down at his food as if wondering where it had come from. And without the least trace of appetite.

I toyed as well with the place setting T'Jar had just set before me, wondering what was happening. It was simpler to focus on something real, prosaic, unchanging. The new course was a Vulcan dish even I favored, anztjen, a deep rooted vine prepared with chunks of a pineapple-like Vulcan cactus. Like all Vulcan desert dishes, it was tedious to prepare, and had to be long stewed to get the woodiness out of the denser fiber. I rarely made it for that reason, even though Sarek usually loved it. And now it looked like neither of us were going to be eating it. I tried to figure out what was going on. "Sarek, I didn't mean it, when I said before that I didn't want to go to the conference. You must know that I was only joking. You're not reacting to that, are you?"

"No. It's nothing you've done."

"Then what is it?" I looked at him, truly at a loss.

For a moment, he didn't meet my gaze, then he relented. "I have resigned my position as Vulcan's Ambassador to the Federation."

I probably felt what T'Pau had felt when he told her he was marrying a human. As shocked as if Sarek had become another person. "You've what?"

"Resigned."

For a long moment, I couldn't speak, wondering what Federation I was in. An announcement like that would make every news service. It would cause ripples throughout most of the Federation. We'd both be deluged with messages. There would be press standing yards deep outside the Fortress. Yet I hadn't heard a thing. "I don't – I haven't heard—Sarek, that's--"

"It will be announced tomorrow," Sarek said, as he realized my confusion at least in this. "As soon as replacements have been chosen."

"Replacements?" I boggled at that. Sarek could no more be replaced than I could become Vulcan. "You can't be serious. Resign… you?" I realized I'd been staring at Sarek like a guppyfish for some minutes, and belatedly closed my mouth. "How can **you** resign?"

Sarek fixed me with a repressive look. "It is a simple act. One says 'no'."

"But it's your **duty**!" I exhorted, with the watchword of our lives for forty years. "It's a familial position. I thought Vulcans had to die, or divorce, to get out of these sorts of duties. That they can't be simply **not** chosen." I left off the statement, even though it crossed my mind, that he'd excommunicated his own son for making that kind of choice against Vulcan tradition. _Where was duty now?_

"That is generally the case," Sarek said, but refused to elaborate.

"What about the High Council? Are you still Head of that?" When Sarek didn't respond, I said, "Don't all these hereditary positions go together?"

For a moment, Sarek blinked, actually looked unsure. "I had not thought… I expect I will resign from that as well. Perhaps. Probably."

If I hadn't been sitting down, I would have fallen down at that like a felled tree. "Does that mean I resign as well?" I asked, struggling to understand a Vulcan without Sarek at the head of it. As Sarek's wife I'd held a largely ceremonial Council position.

"You are not affected by this."

I shook my head at that, trying to imagine sitting at Council without him. None of this made any sense at all. "Sarek, I don't understand."

"There is nothing for you to understand. Simply reschedule your classes and continue with your duties as before."

"But Sarek--"

"Enough, Amanda." He said it in English, not the Vulcan _kroykah_. But somehow the emphatic inflection came across to me regardless of the language barrier.

"**Enough**?" English having no similar inflections, I simply raised my voice in response to his tacit demand. "How can you expect **me** to comply with tradition when **you** are throwing it off? I don't understand. And I need to know--"

"I said **enough**," Sarek repeated, his eyes narrowing and his tone shading further, past impatience into something more. He switched then from English to Vulcan. "We will **cease** to discuss this."

The dark tone of that one word, in full emphatic inflection, echoed through my body as if I'd been touched with a tuning fork. When I stared at him, shocked and uncomprehending, he pushed aside his untouched meal and rose, gazing down at me with a forbidding look on his face I had not seen for twenty years. "This subject will no longer be raised between us."

Given in that tone, with that inflection, his words weren't a suggestion. They were an order, plain and simple. An order such as I hadn't been given in a long time. His eyes met mine, waiting, demanding a response. There was only one response I could give, even though I could hardly understand it, or him.

"Yes, my husband."

He turned and left. I sat there, breathing hard, struggling with sheer disbelief, my entire world turned upside down between the two courses of what had once been only another evening meal, of the many thousands we'd shared before.

But I was only stunned, not blind or dumb. My mind raced on. Even if my husband had forbidden that the subject not be discussed between us, I could hardly **not** consider it. I knew only a few things would keep a Vulcan from the performance of his duties. Death. Divorce, if they were familial duties given in marriage. Dishonor, which could hardly be the case. Pon Far, of course. But after forty years, I knew all the signs of Pon Far. This wasn't that.

But there was something worse than Pon Far. Something far more dangerous and insidious, that crept up, unaware until it came to a head with devastating consequences. Something that, like Sarek's look and tone, I hadn't experienced for twenty years. **Could** it have come back? And **how**?

_No. **Never**,_ I thought.

_But,_ the rational part of my mind urged, while the rest was reeling in disbelief and sheer, stubborn, human denial, W_hat else would keep Sarek from his duties? What else would cause him to speak to me, to deal with me, in such a way? In a tone, in a look, in a manner he hasn't used for all these years. What else ever __**has?**_

The blood fever – not the acute and short lived _Plak Tow_ of Pon Far, but the far more dangerous and chronic _Plak Vrie_. Nearly always fatal, except in certain rare cases with certain specific and equally unpleasant remedies.

I swallowed hard and reached blindly for a water glass, but my shaking hand wouldn't hold it. I clenched my fist as if to deny its trembling and bit a knuckle instead.

_Vrie._ Again. What else could it be?

"Oh, my god," I whispered and I closed my eyes tight against the tears that spilled anyway, in spite of that futile attempt.

Implacable nature being the one thing never denied by a Vulcan. Or to a human married to one.

_To be continued…._


End file.
